


Meet Me In San Junipero

by SbiderSlut (BlackCoffeeCat)



Category: Black Mirror (TV), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Black Mirror Episode: s03e04 San Junipero, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Dreamscapes, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fix-It of Sorts, Liberal use of Lana Del Rey Songs, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Romance, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Surrealism, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-10 01:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18649741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCoffeeCat/pseuds/SbiderSlut
Summary: ***Avengers: Endgame Spoilers Below***Peter finds Tony in the strangest and most enchanting of places, and proceeds to try and bring the man home.





	1. video games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After moping over Endgame for several days and trying to find a fix-it concept that I could write and truly believe in, while enjoying the process, I thought of this. I adore San Junipero from Black Mirror -- I love the mood, I love the aesthetic, the dreaminess of it. So here we have it: a fix-it where Peter finds a file of Tony's consciousness, experiences San Junipero, and manages to secure a happy ending where Tony is not 100% gone. 
> 
> Each chapter is inspired by a Lana Del Rey song because her songs are dreamy af. 
> 
> This chapter is Video Games.

There’s no way he would have missed it. Not his Netflix-loving, pop-culture immersed, Gen-Z ass. Not in fourteen-million universes would Peter Parker have seen the file and breezed on by.

_San Junipero Protocol._

There is no way Tony Stark would make a file named as such, and not expect Peter to arrive at this exact conclusion, or to open it and proceed to delve into the coding with a dogged desperation.

_San Junipero._

Sandy beaches and 80’s clubs and lovers who meet outside of the realm of physicality.

(He’d gushed over the love story to Tony, a while back, and he’d never thought the man was actually listening.)

_San Junipero._

Afterlife paradise.

Peter sifts through code after code, and he begs Ned, and they pore over it together.

And he works himself into dust, trying and failing, trying and failing, until he’s got it -- a little headpiece that’s barely a centimeter’s diameter and sits cool in the center of his palm. It’s worth all the bags under his eyes, the lost nights of sleep, the ulcers from chugging too much coffee and not taking the time to eat.

It’s all worth it.

And stupidly, recklessly, Peter plants that little speck of platinum behind his ear. He plugs himself in and drifts.

\---

“What the fuck,” is the first thing out of Tony’s lips as Peter slides onto the barstool beside him, “are you doing here?”

But Peter draws him into a hug, and he breathes for the first time in months.

Tony hugs back just as tightly, even as he says, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Not in this crappy bar, no,” Peter agrees, burying his hose against the crook of Tony’s neck and breathing in shamelessly, the scent of sweat and humidity and musk -- and _fuck_ , the scent wraps him like a heavy, comforting veil. A child's security blanket. “I missed you.”

Like that, Tony gives in. Fingers tangle in the nape of Peter’s hair and grasps at strands. “And I missed you.”

Minutes pass. On the jukebox, _Captain and Tenille_ plays in a dim drone, and then _Fleetwood Mac_ , and then _Simon and Garfunkel_ , and Peter breathes and breathes and breathes through song after song after song as Tony’s fingers work in his hair, and Tony's body is so broad and warm through the softness of his loose dress shirt -- not at all like the solid bulk of his suit in the midst of battle.

“I’ve got you for the night, then?”

Peter nods, chin hooked over Tony’s shoulder. “Mhmm.”

“Then I should probably show you around a bit. I’m sure you’re expecting San Junipero to be more than a dingy little bar.” He can’t see Mr. Stark’s face, but hearing the wryness is enough. The way those words seem to vibrate right through him in a low rumble? More comfortable than the most cushioned bed.

“That’d be wonderful, Mr. Stark. But it’s alright, I just wanna spend it with you. This is perfect already”

“I -- you’re sweet, you know that? Did I tell you that enough? Just unbelievably sweet.”

Peter flushes, chews his lip. “Yes, you do say that a lot.”

“And you get so adorably shy every time. How could I resist?”

The song lulls; they do, too. Tony draws back and peers into Peter’s face with that searching, earnest look which always makes Peter feel utterly translucent and adored, in the most wonderful way. “Let me buy you a drink?”

“Can it have alcohol?”

“Hmm.” Tony mulls it and shrugs. “I don’t see why not. Any preferences?”

“You pick?”

“Let’s start you off with some beer, then. Don’t want to bowl you right over. Why don’t you pick something on the jukebox?”

“Uh, I don’t have change?”

“This is my own afterlife, Pete. My house. You don’t have to buy anything. Just think it, it’ll come.”

Which is true. Tony slides a tall tuliped glass of beer towards Peter, despite the emptiness of the bar -- the lack of a bartender. Peter thinks, and the music changes. “You want that really chilled?”

“Sure.” Immediately the sides of the glass fog in condensation, and fat droplets trickle down, wetting the wooden bar in a ring underneath. Now that Peter thinks about it, the bar is pleasantly balmy; he can sense the sweat dribbling down his back. He looks at the undone vee of Tony’s shirt, to damp skin and the faint dusting of dark hair, and swallows.

“I’ve never heard this song before,” Tony says, eyes tracking as Peter lifts his glass and takes a sip. “Your verdict?”

It’s -- well, it’s like soda. Refreshing and fizzy. But with a bitter, wheaty edge and Peter smacks his lips, pondering the taste. “It feels good to drink in this weather,” he says. “Odd, but not bad.” He takes another sip under Tony’s intent watch, and feels it through his body.

Being the subject of Tony Stark’s eye has always been equal parts exciting and terrifying.

“It’s a millennial song,” Peter offers, allowing the magical, dreamy caress of the song to wash over him. “I dunno, it just goes with everything. This bar. The whole San Junipero vibe -- did you ever watch the episode?”

“The...episode,” Tony echoes. “Sure I did. Great episode.”

Distant sirens blare in Peter’s head. There are vital questions begging to be asked, but he doesn’t want to voice any of them. He takes the time to sip more of his beer, let some of the song pass before he tries to ask. 

And when he opens his mouth, so does Tony. The older man notes, “This song is rather appropriate, don’t you think?"

_(it's better than i ever even knew / they say that the world was built for two)_

Well. Peter splutters. The implications of the song wash over him, and he tries to quell the skipping of his heartbeat. “I-- I…”

Tony looks at him, weary for the first time. Weighed down for the first time. “Don’t ask me anything, please,” he implores. “Indulge me, Peter. Just drink with me. Enjoy your time here. Do that for an old man?”

There’s no universe where Peter could possibly say no to that. It’s the perfect excuse, because he doesn’t want to ask, either. He just wants to stay here, drunk on this not-reality. The beer fuzzes his brain out, but Tony’s nearness and his baritone and the scent of him and the _sight_ of him, all sunkissed and alive and glowing, is what’s _really_ intoxicating. “Of course,” Peter agrees, as a smile splits his face. Giddiness fills his chest. “Of course.”

Sometime in the night, Peter finds himself tucked under Tony’s arm, cheek pressed to the man’s collarbone, nose scenting along the golden tan of his chest, purring as the man’s wandering, playful fingers toy with Peter in little glances -- in brushes along his shoulder and his cheek and every innocent-yet-not-exactly part of him, in barely-there skims on the tops of his thighs.

“Where’s your sundress?” Tony teases, as they hum along to the twelfth loop of the song, both hypnotized by the lyrics. “However will I take you downtown without a sundress?”

Peter closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he’s in a knee-length romper, soft blue denim, flowy legs, crisp and light. He kicks his feet, covered in pristine white converse and ankle socks, and giggles, the scent of beer on his breath.

“Lovely,” Tony murmurs, lips a brand against Peter’s temple. Gently, his hand settles on Peter’s waist, right over a cut-out in the fabric; a dry, scritchy thumb strokes against the soft skin of Peter’s hip. “I’m in heaven.”

_(heaven is a place on earth with you / tell me all the things you want to do)_

_This isn’t heaven_ , Peter swallows down. _This is your manufactured reality._

Because what does it matter? This may as well be heaven. Who’s to say otherwise?

“Pull me closer,” Peter beseeches, and Tony does; he lets Peter crawl in his lap and sit sideways, legs dangling off to one side.

He blisses out, wrapped tightly in Tony’s arms like that, and asks “Can we play pool and wild darts, next time?”

“Course, darlin’,” Tony husks, and he sings Peter to a drunken sleep.

_(singing in the old bars / swinging with the old stars / living for the fame)_

_(kissing in the blue dark / playing pool and wild cards / video games)_

_(he holds me in his big arms / drunk and i am seeing stars / this is all i think of)_

Peter wakes in his bed, alone, rolls on his side, and cries relieved tears into the plush of his body pillow.

_(go play your video game)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and I'd love to hear what you think! <3 <3 
> 
> \---
> 
> I am [SbiderSlut](http://sbiderslut.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come by and say hi! 💖💕


	2. west coast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on West Coast. Amazing song, amazing vibes. Amazing Lana, as per usual. Check it out <3

“Let’s go for a drive,” Tony says this time, as Peter sidles up next to him on the same dinky stool, in the same dinky bar. He drains the rest of his glass and turns towards Peter with an inscrutable expression, dark brows furrowed, lips pursed in that unconsciously alluring way of his.

“Are you okay to drive?” Peter asks, stepping up to the older man as he rises. He wraps his arms around Tony’s waist and rests his right cheek against that warm, broad chest with its faint scent of oud, tobacco, and a trace of whiskey sweetness. “You’re not too drunk?”

Arms encircle Peter, strong and feeling like home. A chin rests on the top of his head. “In San Junipero? I’m only drunk if I wanna be.” Those arms tighten, and Peter hides a smile in the fabric of Tony’s loose shirt. “I missed you, kid.”

“I missed you, too, Mr. Stark.” _I wish I could stay here all the time_. He doesn’t voice it, but Tony’s eyes crinkle in concern when he pulls back.

“Then let’s enjoy ourselves while you’re here, hmm?” With minimal effort, he loops his arms around Peter’s waist and lifts.

Peter giggles as he rises -- wraps his legs around Tony’s waist as he sits his ass on the man’s arms, rests his hands on those steady shoulders and looks down into Tony’s dark-lashed eyes. “So strong,” he teases.

“Power of the mind, sweetling,” Tony quips, lips tugging in a roguish smirk. “For example -- pick a car. Any car.”

There’s no thinking -- automatically, Peter says, “Classic white Ford Mustang. 1965. Convertible.”

“Beautiful.”

Tony walks them out the bar, into a balmy breeze and warm sunshine, with one arm looped around the entirety of Peter’s waist, and the other pulled back so that his hand is rested on Peter’s left thigh, roughened skin laid over pale softness.

Peter doesn’t quite want to let go; he finds that it’s always the case in Tony’s world. He never wants to let the man go. When he does, it’s grudgingly, and he’ll always long for that next meeting, that next touch.

Peter only lets Tony gently lean over the car door and deposit him in the passenger’s seat because it takes the man scant seconds to make his way around the car and vault into his own seat. And as soon as Tony’s settled, Peter lifts and lays his calves over the thighs of Tony’s slacks as the man starts the car.

Tony smiles and flicks the tip of an index finger under the straps of Peter’s iridescent jelly sandals. “You’re lucky feet don’t smell in the afterlife,” he quips, dancing over the lines of Peter’s foot. “You gonna match your clothes to these atrocities? You’re not even a 90’s kid.”  

As he speaks, Tony fingers undo the flimsy clasps of Peter’s sandals. He slips them off so only bare feet are resting in his lap. Reaching over the console, Tony drops both shoes on the passenger-side floor.

Peter mulls his fashion choices, looking down at his sweatshirt and khakis -- his _actual_ clothes -- and shrugs. He closes his eyes for a short second and opens them. “Does this match better, Mr. Stark?” He runs his hands down the pleats of his small nautical shorts. “What do you think?” he asks, adjusting the tie of his sailor top and tugging the hem down. Unconsciously, he’d cropped his shirt so it ends inches above the waistband of his bottoms.

“Pretty,” Tony says, and his hand brushes up Peter’s ankle and calf to tickle at the inner bend of a knee. “I’m getting some ‘97 Lolita vibes, to be honest. Not that I’m complaining. Lift for a moment, dear?”

Peter lifts his legs enough for Tony to switch the gears, and with a faint purr, the car kicks into a roll. A pair of red heart sunglasses appear in his hand, and Peter props them on his head. “Does that make you Humbert Humbert?” he questions, despite knowing the full premise of the novel. Despite knowing that Tony Stark is _nothing_ like Humbert Humbert.

Tony just snorts. “That motherfucker? Never. No manipulation, no coercion. When you come to me, it’ll be your choice.”

Peter doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just sighs softly and strokes along Tony’s thigh with his big toe once, twice. What can he say? _I’ve made my choice?_

Peter knows he’s not supposed to be here. Peter knows the type of man Tony Stark is -- he knows that Tony has always wanted what’s best for Peter. One could make a good argument that Peter’s best interests all involve him staying confined to reality.

Sooner or later, Tony will come to his senses and this heavenly lapse in judgment will end. He’ll make the decision Peter is dreading, and it will hurt.

Until that day comes, though, Peter resolves to enjoy himself as much as he can. He resolves to cherish these fleeting, indulgent moments of contentment.

He resolves to let the wind gust through his hair as he watches Tony’s fetching profile, the peak of his nose, the length of those lashes, and those muscles of his arm -- visible through his shirt -- as he steers. “You’re staring, kitten,” Tony murmurs, eyes focused forward.

“And you’re handsome,” Peter says, unapologetic, even if the heat of a blush scorches his cheeks. He doesn’t ask, _how many more chances will I get to stare at you?_ But the question lingers in the air, anyways. Lingers in his heart.

He slides the sunglasses down, shielding his eyes.

“I’m old, Pete. An old man.”

“Who told you those were mutually exclusive?” Peter licks his lips, seeking the proper words. “Maybe, for you, age and handsomeness are a positive correlation,” he tries, and counts it as a success when Tony chuckles. “An exponential curve,” he adds.

“Hate to break to ya, honey, but I’m not aging anymore,” Tony deadpans. Then, he shakes his head. “Ignore that, fuck,” he mutters under his breath, before asking pointedly, “Why don’t you pick a song?”

Swallowing down as much melancholy as he can fit, Peter switches the old radio dial with a song on his mind.

“Same singer as before?”

Peter nods, toes tapping away rhythmically along the inseam of Tony’s thigh. “Yeah. I love it. I understand her.”

“Interesting choice of theme and lyrics.”

“Would you say it’s fitting?” The question slips from Peter’s lips before he can help himself, and his heart skips a beat.

_(you’re falling hard, i push away i’m feeling hot to the touch / you say you miss me and i wanna say i miss you so much / but something keeps me really quiet, i’m alive, i’m a lush / your love, your love, our love)_

There’s a long pause. The car speeds up under the press of Tony’s foot; Peter’s still staring, so he catches the clenching of fingers around the wheel.

He feels the rippling of a tensing thigh muscle under his bare feet.

“I wouldn’t say it’s _not_ fitting,” Tony finally settles on, low and careful.

“Hmm.” Peter purses his lips and looks away for the first time, towards the scenery outsides the car -- golden coast and palm trees and beaches, with a backdrop of blue Pacific, and appreciates this little world that’s been carved out for them. “We _are_ on the west coast,” he offers, tracking the placement of the sun in the sky. “The location is accurate.” _Among other things_.

“That it is,” Tony agrees. “That it is.”

_(i can see my baby swinging / his parliament’s on fire and his hands are rough / on the balcony and i’m singing / ooh, baby, ooh, baby, i’m in love)_

“I drank before.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Can I smoke? A Parliament?”

“Did none of those middle school PSAs get through to you? D.A.R.E.?” But, Tony pulls over to the side of the road, right along the ocean, with a perfect downwards view of a stretch of rocky coast, of foamy tides crashing over the slate and leaving behind traces of froth. Of deepening blue, stretching out infinitely. “Quite a rebel, are you, Parker?”

“Just for you,” Peter quips, extending out a half-smushed pack of Parliaments. He’s really getting the hang of this _you-think-you-receive_ game. “Show me how?”

“Get out of the car, first,” Tony says. “I don’t care if it’s real or not, you’re not dumping ashes in a ‘65 Mustang like some goddamn teenage punk. You’re not a Runaway.”

Peter clambers over the side of the car and with tip-toed steps on the warm pavement, seats himself on the hood, ass rested against a smooth paint job, legs spread and bare feet just managing to skim the ground. He waits for Tony to exit the vehicle and round it with his distinct swagger. Peter waits, and Tony comes closer and closer -- makes a place for himself between Peter’s legs.

The older man pauses, looks at Peter, and smiles all secretively. “Hmm, cozy.”

At a loss for words -- and too dry to voice them even if he had any --, Peter silently offers the pack, again.

If there was any doubt that Tony Stark smoked at some point in his life, it’s gone, now. With practiced finesse, Tony dangles a cigarette from his lip and flicks on a lighter, eyes fixed on Peter. He does so with one hand unmoving on Peter’s bare knee.

It crosses Peter’s mind that watching the older man do anything with those dexterous fingers gets his blood rushing. He fights the urge to lift his legs and wrap them around Tony, to draw him in -- but he’s sure Tony can feel the way Peter’s thigh muscle twitches underneath that hand with it’s heavy, expensive watch.

Even in San Junipero, Tony Stark likes his _Patek Phillipes_ , his _Breguets_  his _Jaeger-LeCoultres_. He has the wrist for them, and Peter spares the briefest glance down at tanned skin over creamy thigh, at the glint of metal and the rich fabric of a pressed shirtsleeve.

Despite the cover of his sunglasses, there’s no doubt Tony knows exactly where Peter’s eyes scan; around the butt of the cigarette, the man’s lips draw into a faint smirk as Peter looks back up.

 _Caught_.

Yet, Peter can’t care anymore. Loss tends to inspire a brazen streak, a sense of reckless abandon.

From behind the protection of shaded lens, he follows that thumb which flicks on the flame, follows how Tony holds the light steadily up to the tip.

All breeze dies down, for the moment.

Peter watches, heart pounding, as Tony puffs the cigarette until the end is glowing. And then, he watches as the man takes a drag from one side of his mouth and exhales smoke from the other.

Fuck, it’s so sexy.

They’re standing close -- a foot between them, Tony’s hips brushing at the insides of Peter’s thighs, and Peter catches the delicious whiff of Tony’s smoke. “My turn?” he asks.

“Patience, darling,” Tony chides teasingly, lifting his hand from Peter’s thigh to brush along the rim of a heart lens. “Take these off, first? As much as I’m... _digging_ this Dolores Haze vibe, I like your pretty-Parker eyes more. Let me see you.”

Peter holds -- holds his movements, holds his breath -- as Tony slides the frames off his face. They get dismissively tossed aside with a flick of a watched wrist. “There you are,” Tony murmurs, eyes intent and sparkling. “My pretty-Parker.”

A giggle tumbles from Peter’s lips.

Tony just smiles. “Cute.” He lifts his other hand, with the cigarette, and raises his brows. “You were asking?”

The first drag, Peter chokes. It’s just...he looks at the butt of the cig. Thinks that just seconds ago, it had been in Tony’s mouth, had touched the inside of those lips. And Peter sticks that same end in his mouth and sucks a little to urgently, hungry to eat up every last trace of Tony on that filter, and his lungs fill too quickly with smoke and he ends up ducking his head and coughing until tears sting at his eyes.

“Oh, sweetling,” Tony croons, managing to snatch the cigarette back with quick reflexes. “You gotta take it slower than that.” As Peter coughs out the burn of the smoke, Tony gently strokes a circle against Peters knee. “Cough it all out.” Placidly, he waits until Peter’s fit has finished, before tilting Peter’s face up by the chin and brushing away the faint dampness of tears.

“Sorry,” Peter rasps. “Shit.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Tony says. “It happens. But let’s try something.”

“Try what?”

“This.” Tony brings the smoke back to his own lips and takes a deep, slow, _masterful_ drag. Lips shut, he brings that same hand towards Peter’s face. With the lit end carefully pointed away, he reaches for Peter’s lower lip and pointedly thumbs at it, coaxing Peter’s mouth open.

And he dips forward blows the smoke in.

Peter doesn’t even have to consciously try -- he sucks in a shocked breath and the smoke slips right into his mouth, fills his throat and lungs, and he chokes out a soft noise of exclamation. “Mr. Stark,” he breathes, and the smoke comes out with his words. “I-- I…”

Tony smiles, this soft and fond thing involving a tilt to his head and a faint squinting of his eyes. God, does Peter love that look. “That worked well,” the man muses. “You’re not coughing. Wanna try again?”

“Yes, please.”

Stark’s lips come just short of brushing Peter’s; each time he leans in to streamline smoke between Peter’s lips, there’s the warmth and tingling which comes with that scant millimeter of distance. He moves, and Peter can _feel_ it without actual touching.

God, does Peter want to touch, but this distance is also deliciously tense. He feels on the precipice of something exceptional, like this.

It’s that torturous, stretch of tension before it all shatters, and Peter _loves_ it the way he loves an ache in his muscles after a strenuous workout.

He loves how, when the cigarette is all smoked down to the nub, Tony closes it in his fist, and that’s the last of it. It vanishes. He loves how Tony takes a cool step back and silently disregards Peter, making his smooth way back to the driver’s side.

He loves how it’s not until Tony is fully seated that he looks up with a raised brow and asks, as if expecting nothing less, “You coming?”

It’s the best feeling, to know that Tony’s 100% assured of Peter’s place beside him. And it’s stunningly attractive that he’s so confident in his own prowess. Peter vaults into the passenger’s seat, notices the pointed way the older man’s arm is lifted, and settles his feet back in their rightful place over strong thighs. “What now?” Peter asks.

“Funny. I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

There’s a pause; Tony stares at Peter contemplatively in a way which makes Peter fight off the urge to squirm. He stares, and stares, and them nods to himself with a lick of his lips. Then, he's tapping at Peter’s leg again, wordlessly asking Peter draw them back. “Hey, bunny. C’mere.”

Peter has no idea what to expect. Still, he sits on his knees and leans into Tony’s space. “Yes, Mr. Stark?”

( _you push it hard, i pull away, i'm feeling hotter than fire / i guess that no one ever really made me feel that much higher / te deseo, cariño, boy, it's you i desire / your love, your love, our love_ )

It’s seamless; Tony’s hand slides to cup the nape of Peter’s neck, a warm weight.

It’s effortless; with just the faintest of pressures, Peter leans in. It’s always been so. However Tony guides him, Peter earnestly follows.

It’s beautifully reckless; Peter keeps his eyes open and riveted on Tony as the older man moves in; they both do. Up close, Tony’s lashes are thick and dark. And then, Tony tilts his head, shuts his eyes. Lets his nose slot alongside Peter’s, lets their lips meet together with the smallest hint of wet, with the delicious scrape of stubble.

Tony still tastes of hints of smoke -- Peter imagines he does, too. He hums in pleasure, and Tony chuckles in response, a faint vibration which tingles on Peter’s lower lip.

And then, it’s over.

Tony draws back with a rakish smile. “You good, honey?”

Biting back a hysterical giggle, Peter nods. There’s bliss swirling in him, just enough of it to distract him from that ever-present anxiety. “Yeah, I’m good,” he says, and then chews his lip. “What now?”

_What does this mean? What is any of this supposed to mean? Why -- all of a sudden -- why?_

“We drive,” Tony offers, fully sitting back in his own seat. “Enjoy the scenery. The coast.” He starts the car, looks forward, but then throws another considering glance towards Peter. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s okay,” Peter responds.

He falls in his original position -- drops his heels in Tony’s lap and lounges sideways, propped up by the passenger door. As Tony drives, Peter hangs his head back over the edge of the car and stares at the wide blue sky. He eyes the fleeting wisps of clouds in the sky, liable to blow away at any second.

He closes his eyes and savors the warmth against his ankles, savors the presence of Tony near him, and wonders, _what next?_

_(i can see my sweet boy swaying / he’s crazy y Cubano como yo, la la / on the balcony and i’m saying / move, baby, move, baby, i’m in love)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more blissful -- and it was fun to write. I listen to the chosen song on repeat as I write these chapters :) You've got some sense of oddness and gratuitousness here -- why is Tony acting the way he's acting? Why is he being so receptive and flirty when he's never been before? When he has a family (gasp!). 
> 
> Ohohohoh because a n g s t is coming and all of this oddness will swoop back and kick Peter in the ass ;)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting! <3
> 
> \---
> 
> I am [SbiderSlut](http://sbiderslut.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come by and say hi! 💖💕


End file.
